summer dream
by jin07114
Summary: this isn't a love story. i'm not sure if it's a story, to be exact. it won't make sense to most, but that's all right. i only wrote it for one.


this is not a love story. this is not a story about love, not the one you're thinking of. it's a story about push and pull, except the one pushing doesn't have the confidence to reach out and the one pulling can't find the strength to pick up the rope and find the connection. it's a selfish story, one that won't make sense to most people, but that's all right. i'm only writing it for one.

* * *

pride is a monster clutching at his ego, sinking its jagged maw into his wrecked self-esteem. he stares at his shoes when he walks, winces at the peeling white on his soles when he sees the immaculate stilettos of a stranger next to him. every word out his mouth is analyzed by his faulty intelligence; multiply the emphasis of delivery, add the subsequent reaction of those in the vicinity, subtract what he says by the words he can't get out of his fucking mouth. he drinks water, cause he has nothing to do otherwise, and taps his pen against the desk because he doesn't know how to control the energy fighting inside him otherwise. nobody knows him, and he doesn't know anybody; it's a matter of push and pull, but nobody's pulling and he's not pushing. nothing makes sense, and sometimes he's fine with that, and sometimes he's not.

the only person that he thinks really understands him is the girl.

she sits in the edges of his dreams, right at the precipice. in his dreams, the sunlight is always shining through her hair, soft gold drawing out light brown in her dark hair. she's wearing a loose white dress, bunched in gently around her slim waist and flaring out prettily over the crook of her knees. the collar of her dress is buttoned up neatly against the hollow of her neck, light contrasting over her tan skin.

just like always, she's crying, small tears trickling down the curve of her cheeks. he can never make out her face, but something tells him she's beautiful despite the tears. he wishes she wasn't sad, but he doesn't know how to make it better.

this time, he comes to sit next to her. she doesn't look at him, but that's okay. he says, "i wish i could make you happy."

she replies, "you don't even know me." because it's a dream, she doesn't have a voice, but the words appear in his head nonetheless.

"i know," he says back. "but i want you to be happy, no matter what."

there are a million more things he wants to say, but she smiles at that. it's only a small turn of her lips, so small it almost looks forced, but that's all right. it's okay to take things slow, sometimes.

he takes her hand. her fingers are long and slim, bigger than his own. it makes him feel small, but also strong. he can feel her warmth through her palm, even through the dream.

"don't worry about me," she says. "i'll be fine someday. you don't need to care."

his heart hurts at that for a second, then stops. it's only a dream, after all. there is no need to care, but he can't find it inside him to let go.

"i'm sorry," he says. "i'm selfish, so i can't help myself. so if you would let me hold your hand for a little longer, i'd appreciate it."

there is something inherently familiar in the way she looks at him, with galaxies spreading through her irises and stars framing her eyelashes. there's nothing hard in her gaze, just affection softening the intensity of her gaze. if there is some resentment in her eyes, then she hides it well; he can't see it, no matter how hard he searches for it.

and how hard he searches.

he waits and waits for her answer, but it never comes. instead, the skies of his dream begin to taper and peel, fluttering into spring petals around them until the world around them breaks. the ground begins to split beneath them, and she begins to struggle, thrashing about, but he clutches onto her hand tightly. he's still holding her hand even as the ground splits and a massive abyss reaches up to swallow them, casting them in darkness until the only thing he can sense is the warmth of her hand. he's still holding her hand even when he wakes up, keeps on holding on until he finds himself searching for the security of her fingers in his empty palm.

until the day she replies, he'll keep holding onto her, even if it's a dream. it's all he can do, after all. but he hopes for the day the sun shines in her eyes and she can sleep peacefully with a hand to hold, whether it's his or not.

he hopes.


End file.
